A Fine Summer's Day (7 page)

Rutledge indicated the man's worn and earth-caked boots. It was evident he'd done quite a bit of walking lately, and in all weathers. “Scrambling about looking for dinosaur bones and pockets of jet, as well?”

There were areas of the headlands here where both had been found. But the other man appeared to be perplexed, as if uncertain whether Rutledge was jesting or serious.

He shrugged, then added. “There hasn't been time so far.”

“Where do you live, below? Can you see the ruins from your windows? It must be quite amazing to look up here during a full moon.”

It was clear the other man hadn't thought about a full moon. He stared for a moment, then said quickly, “Yes, rising from the sea. Of course.”

Rutledge's voice changed as he said, “What really brings you here, Mr. Hartle?”

“Oh dear God. You aren't another policeman, are you?”

“Scotland Yard,” he replied tersely.

Hartle sat down quickly on the nearest stone, as if his legs couldn't support him any longer. “I thought I could get away with it. At least for a while.” He gestured with one hand, as if giving up. “I just hadn't bargained for the police to take such an interest. At least not quite so soon.”

Rutledge reached up to deal with his tie, and then pulled on his
coat. “I think you'd better come down to the police station with me and explain yourself.”

“For God's sake, no.”

“I don't think you have much choice,” Rutledge said. “A man has been murdered here in Moresby. We're interviewing local people and strangers like you.”

“But I'm not a stranger!” Hartle said quickly. “Look, let me explain. Will you just listen to me for a moment? I didn't want to say anything to Farraday. He might have remembered. You're from London, you'll not be prejudiced by the past.”

“Go on.” Rutledge found another place to sit, and waited.

“My father is dying,” Hartle began. “He has a farm not far from here. We had a falling-out eleven years ago. I was no more than a boy, but he struck me out of his will, and I don't mind that. I can fend for myself. Still, I was hoping he'd ask for me, you see. And I wanted to be nearby, in the event he does. But of course I can't stay at the farm. And so I spend my days sitting up here, wondering what else I can do. One of my cousins has promised to come for me if Papa changes his mind about seeing me. I stay in my cousin's house at night, but his wife doesn't much care for me and has made it clear she doesn't want me hanging about.” He made a deprecating gesture. “I was what you might call wild in my youth. I can't blame her for feeling the way she does. But I've settled down. Changed. In more ways than one. Farraday didn't even recognize me as the skinny lad with the spotty face and a sullen attitude. I long ago forgave Papa, but I want his forgiveness as well. Does that make any sense?”

“Why didn't you tell Inspector Farraday that?”

“I told you. I'm here on sufferance as it is. Even my cousin has limits to his forbearance. If the police come around asking questions, trying to find out
why
I'm here, it will be taken in the worst possible way. Don't you see? They'll think I've never changed at all. But I
have
. I've found work, I'm seeing a very nice young woman, and the past ten years I've tried to make up for what I've done.”

“What did you do?”

Hartle's face flushed. “I was more or less a ruffian, in with the wrong people. I stole from Papa. Before I ran away, and again the night I left. I've tried to pay it back, every farthing of it, but he refuses to take my money. It's dirty, he says, ill-gotten. But it isn't. I've worked for every bit of it. Honest work.”

“What sort of work?”

“I now have a position in a haberdashery in Scarborough. I was never cut out to be a farmer. Mr. Hartle is very kind. He gave me a little time off when I learned that Papa was ill. And come to that, it wouldn't do for
him
to learn about my past. I've lived it down.”

“Hartle. Another cousin?”

“No, that's it, you see. I didn't want to hang about and give people time to think back. My name is Mark Kingston. I borrowed Mr. Hartle's name. I doubt he'd approve, but I have not sullied it in any way,” he ended defensively.

“A very plausible story. But it will have to be verified.”

“But why? I've held nothing back.” Kingston's tired face was suddenly haggard. “It will be even worse, with Scotland Yard walking up to the door and asking about me. I don't know who was murdered. I don't really care. But I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

“Didn't the Inspector tell you? It was Ben Clayton, the furniture maker on Abbey Street.”

“I don't remember the man. For God's sake, it was eleven years ago. And I wasn't interested in furniture then, was I?”

“What about his sons, Peter and Michael Clayton. His daughter, Annie? You must have been in school with some of them?”

Kingston shook his head. “I wasn't much for school. If they were good at their lessons, I scorned them and had nothing to do with them. My loss. Although somehow I took in enough reading and arithmetic to satisfy Mr. Hartle, when it came to hiring me.”

Easy to say, hard to prove. Rutledge took another tack.

“Inspector Farraday wonders if you might be a German spy.”

Kingston was aghast. “In God's name—” He got himself under control. “I've never been out of England. Never out of Yorkshire, come to that. Why would I spy for anyone, much less a country I don't even know? Besides, why would a spy kill a furniture maker?”

“Money?” Rutledge suggested, although he tended to disagree with Farraday on the subject.

Kingston buried his face in his hands. “It's a nightmare, I tell you. I just wanted my father's blessing, I just wanted to know he's forgiven me. And for him to see what I've done with my life these ten past years.”

“Then we'll verify what you've said.” He stood, stretching shoulders. “I'm going with you to your cousin's house.”

“And tell them what? That I've lied to Inspector Farraday, and I'm suspected of killing a man I wouldn't have recognized if he passed me on the street?” He got to his own feet. “No thank you, I'd rather throw myself off that cliff and be done with it.”

“Don't be so ridiculously melodramatic,” Rutledge said shortly. “We've a long walk ahead of us, and I'm not in the mood.”

Kingston stared at him, then fell in step. “I'm sorry. It's been a difficult time.” He was silent until they'd reached the path that led down into the town. Then halfway down he commented, “I like the cut of your suit of clothes. London?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have your own tailor? I'm sorry, but I've learned a good deal about men's fashions since I went to work for Mr. Hartle. I've considered learning how cloth is measured and cut. When I left the farm, I'd never seen a bespoke suit. We had the proper clothes to wear to church of a Sunday and the like, but the rest of the time it was corduroy and flannel and heavy cotton cloth seven days a week. Serviceable.”

Rutledge let him rattle on. It was partly anxiety and partly curiosity, he knew, and by the time they'd reached the bottom of that long flight of steps, Kingston had fallen silent again.

They walked through the town without speaking, Kingston peering over his shoulder, as if expecting Inspector Farraday to leap out of the shadows at any moment. On the outskirts, he pointed to a muddy lane that wandered off to their left. Behind a stone wall in the distance, sheep grazed quietly, ignoring the pair of black horses higher up on the rising land.

At Kingston's direction, Rutledge turned into the lane and took the second right he came to, trying to avoid the ruts and puddles left over from the last rain. They had covered some distance before he saw the farmhouse in a fold of the land. They were well beyond Moresby now, and the abbey ruins had disappeared from view.

Kingston was even more apprehensive now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“What are you going to tell them? Must you say you're from the Yard?”

In a space between the kitchen garden of the farmhouse and one of the smaller outbuildings, a line had been strung. A woman was taking in the washing, mostly bedclothes she must have hung out that morning. She paused in her work, a clothespin between her lips, and stared at the two men approaching her. It was not a friendly stare.

“I told you she doesn't like me,” Kingston said beneath his breath. “She has only taken me in because my cousin insisted. But where else was I to sleep? I can't afford to put up at an inn or the hotel.”

They were within hearing distance now. The woman called, “I don't recollect Tad sending for you. And who is this with you? Another penniless relative come to take advantage of a dying old man?”

T
here was such venom in her voice that Rutledge could almost feel her anger and contempt like a physical wall, and on the instant he changed his mind about the course this interview would take.

“I'm sorry, Hilda. This is Mr. Rutledge. He—” Kingston turned to Rutledge, his face pale and flustered.

“Mrs. Kingston?” Rutledge said pleasantly. “I apologize for intruding like this. But I knew your cousin, here, and I asked if I could come up to pay my own respects to his father.”

“You're not sneaking him into that house, whatever you say about respects. He's not wanted there, Kingston isn't, and if he had any sense at all, he'd accept the fact that his father doesn't want any part of him, death bed or not. Now or ever.”

Rutledge didn't stop. He was within thirty feet of her before he paused. “You speak very harshly of your husband's cousin. What has he ever done to you?”

“His reputation is enough. He's a thief. And don't speak to me about the prodigal son, in Scripture. There's no fatted calf or anything else for him here. He's wasting his time and my husband's goodwill, hanging about as he is.”

Rutledge rather thought it was possibly sharing the inheritance that angered her, not Kingston's past.

“What is the elder Mr. Kingston dying of?” Rutledge asked.

“His kidneys are failing.” She gestured to the line of bedclothes. “I can hardly keep up with the laundry. I don't need this extra work, I've my own to do.”

“Where is the elder Mr. Kingston?”

His companion began to speak, but Rutledge held up a hand to silence him.

The woman glanced from Rutledge to Kingston and back again. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “You're not a solicitor, are you? Here to try and break the will?”

“I'm from London, Mrs. Kingston. Where is your husband's uncle?”

She gestured down the road, and Rutledge could see that the lane continued past this smaller holding and snaked across the land for another hundred yards before disappearing.

“The main farm is over there, beyond that rise. But if you're smart, you'll turn about now. Nobody wants either of you here.”

A voice came from behind them. Rutledge turned to see a farmer bearing down on them. He was clearly angry, and he must have been close enough to hear some of the conversation with his wife. Rutledge tensed, uncertain what to expect.

But the man's wrath, if that's what it was, was directed to his wife. “I've told you. Mark's my cousin, and you'll treat him as such. His father gave me this land and a start, and I owe him something for that.” Still angry, he turned on Rutledge. “And who might you be?”

“My name is Rutledge. I came here with Mr. Kingston. He seems to feel he's not wanted. I wondered why.”

“Small wonder, if he's treated this way when my back is turned.”

Kingston couldn't help himself. “How is my father today? Is he any better? Has he asked for me?”

“Haven't I just told you he's dying of his kidneys?” the cousin's wife snapped.

But the cousin said in a kinder tone, “The doctor thinks he may not last the night. I've spoken to him. I promised you I would. But I don't think he's in his right mind. I don't think he hears me. Or understands half of what I'm saying.”

“Would it upset him if I went in to speak to him? Tad, it's important. I wouldn't ask, except this might be my last chance.”

“I'm not feeding both of them their dinner,” the woman warned.

Her husband ignored her. “All right. I'll take you to the house. Mary is there, she won't be happy to see you, but I'll try. And you never know.”

Kingston turned to Rutledge. “I must go. Please, understand.”

“Who is Mary?” Rutledge asked.

“My father's housekeeper.” There was more constraint than affection in Kingston's voice. “She never liked me, she swore I led her son into mischief. In truth it was the other way around. He was older and more proficient at not getting caught.”

“I've work to do in Moresby,” Rutledge said. “I'll leave you to speak to your father alone.”

The man's face reflected his gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, and reached out for Rutledge's hand. Then he thought better of the gesture and let his drop.

Rutledge stayed where he was, watching Kingston and his cousin until they had disappeared over the hill. The woman had gone on collecting the bedding, not looking at him, as if ignoring him might make him disappear in a puff of welcome smoke.

When he was sure that Kingston was indeed being led to the main farmhouse, he turned on his heel and left.

But the woman couldn't let it go. “There's nothing for him. Or
for you,” she called. “So don't be getting any ideas about what the will says.”

Rutledge turned. “I shan't worry about it. I'll leave it to the police, if anything happens to that man while he's staying with you.”

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut smartly. Reaching for the basket at her feet, already half full, she hefted it to her hip and marched back into the farmhouse, slamming the door behind her.

B
ack in Moresby, for a time Rutledge sat on a weathered bench near the harbor, his mind busy with the problem of Clayton's murder while idly watching clouds building up over the Yorkshire moors. Finally, satisfied that he must be right, he walked on to the police station and Inspector Farraday's office.

The local man listened to what he had to say about Kingston, then nodded. “So that's who he is. I knew my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. I knew he was up to something. What you don't know,” he went on, a glint in his eye, “is that Kingston was a troublemaker of the first water, when he was younger. I can't tell you how many fights he must have started, and he was a thief to boot. Drove his poor father mad, because there was no dealing with him. I was just a constable then, I did what I could, but most people disliked bringing charges, for his father's sake. It was a good week when he vanished in the night.”

“He's not the same man now,” Rutledge said, frowning. “You can't jail him for what he did before he was twenty. Unless there is an open warrant for it.”

“People like Kingston don't change. Oh, yes, in appearance, I grant you. That explains why I didn't recognize him straightaway. And consider this: if he's been given leave to come here in the hope of seeing his father, how is he managing to live?”

“I've told you. He's staying with Tad Kingston and his wife.”

“Cold comfort there. What if he'd been standing up there on the headland, wishing he had the price of a meal, and he saw Miss Clayton leave for the evening? He might have thought the house was empty, and if Clayton was there, quietly reading or dozing in his chair, he might not have heard Kingston breaking in.”

“I'd agree with you but for two things. No one broke in to that house. And nothing is missing.”

“All right, the door wasn't locked. But Kingston had no right to be in that house, did he? He's not likely to steal the candlesticks, he'd have no use for them. But he might've helped himself to a few pounds from Clayton's purse. We can't be sure the daughter knew how much money he carried with him that Tuesday. She hadn't counted it.”

“I can't see Kingston hanging his victim. Bashing him over the head with the fire tongs, yes, perhaps. Hanging is another matter.”

“It served its purpose, didn't it? Threw us well off the track.”

“Where did he learn to tie a hangman's knot?”

“He's been gone nearly eleven years. Closer to twelve, come to that. He could have learned a good many unsavory things in that time.”

Rutledge shook his head. “I don't see Kingston in the picture.”

“Then who else, pray, fits it?”

“I'd like to look into Clayton's past. His background in Somerset or wherever it was. That shouldn't be too difficult to trace.” What's more Sergeant Gibson, at the Yard, was a master at digging out information, no matter how obscure the lead. But he didn't need to tell Farraday how he intended to go about it.

“Wild goose chase. No, of all the people we've questioned, I'd put my money on Kingston. Besides.” He studied Rutledge for a moment. “Nearly three pounds were stolen from a house near the harbor just the week before. The day after Kingston arrived in Moresby.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “You never said anything about it before now.”

“We thought it was one of the local lads. In fact we've been keeping an eye on him to see if we're right.”

“Then it's possible
he
killed Clayton in a botched attempt to rob him.”

“He's fourteen and scrawny. How did he heave Clayton up the stairs, much less convince the man to let him in?”

“I'd keep an eye on that boy, all the same. If he's brought in for that theft, then Kingston is in the clear for it.” Rutledge took a deep breath. “I'm going to need to consult with the Yard. Before we take this inquiry any further.”

“And if his father dies, meanwhile? And Kingston discovers there's nothing in the farm for him, what do we do?”

“He works for a man called Hartle in Scarborough. It should be simple enough to find him there. As you say, he will need to keep that position if his father leaves him nothing.”

“If he's killed once, he might take it into his head to murder his own cousin.”

If murder lurked in Kingston's heart, Rutledge thought to himself, it would be Tad's wife that he would be tempted to kill.

“He could hardly take over the farm, if he were hanged.”

“Still,” Farraday said. “Kingston lied to the police, didn't he? What else is he concealing? I ask you.”

Farraday had made up his mind. But Rutledge remained unconvinced. He asked, “Is there a telephone nearby? It will be the quickest way to resolve this.”

Farraday shook his head. “Not in Moresby.”

That settled it.

“Then I'll have to take the first train to London, find out where Clayton's roots are, look to see if there is anything in his background we ought to know about, and return as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, keep an eye on Michael Clayton. He's feeling left out of the family circle just now. Keep another watch on Kingston. If his father has changed the will, I'm more worried about Tad's wife deciding that Mark Kingston should simply disappear. There's a good deal of water out here. What better place to toss a body?”

“My money is on Kingston,” Farraday said firmly.

Rutledge started to say that the inquiry was his, not Farraday's, then thought better of it. There was no need to antagonize the man. Nodding, he said, “I'll be back as quickly as I can. Allow Kingston to see his father. If he's not our man, then we'll have done him a grave disservice if we interfere with that.”

He went back to his lodgings, quickly packed his belongings, and carried on to the railway station. As he'd expected, the next train to London pulled in twenty minutes later, and he was on his way south. With his last look at Moresby Abbey, he had a feeling that Farraday would act on his own once the Yard was out of sight. It would be necessary to speak to Bowles, and through him to the Yorkshire Chief Constable. A word in his ear would keep Farraday in line.

It was only after they'd reached York that Rutledge realized he'd be in London in time for the Gordons' party. He'd tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on the inquiry. Now he could allow himself to think about Friday with a clear conscience. He felt a rising excitement at the prospect of seeing Jean so soon.

A man entered the compartment, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He took the seat across from Rutledge and opened it. From where he was sitting, Rutledge could read the headlines on the page facing him.

He didn't like the look of them. It appeared now that the assassination of the Archduke had involved more than a handful of fanatical nationalists, bent on making trouble. There were indications of a Serbian government role. It was no longer a question of hanging a few anarchists. Austria would be well within her rights to march. Meanwhile, Russia's threats to step in and protect a fellow Slavic nation would take on new and ominous overtones. No longer saber rattling but a very real danger of war. The question was, would Germany, Austria's traditional ally, feel compelled to act on
her
behalf? The Kaiser was making it clear that any involvement on Russia's part would be viewed as a serious matter.

And yet—and yet. In the end, wiser heads might prevail, and it would all blow over. Tsar Nicholas would listen to his advisors and recognize that protecting Serbia would cost more than he could possibly gain. The Kaiser could consider he'd done his duty by Vienna by stepping up. And Serbia might take fright and deliver up to Austria all those who had had a hand in the death of the Archduke, allowing them to stand trial.

All the same, Rutledge rather thought that Farraday was right, this business could well engulf most of Europe. In Victoria's day—even in that of the late King Edward—the English royal family's blood ties with the rest of Europe, including Russia and Germany, would have counted for something. The question was, would King George have the same influence?

Time would tell.

He put it out of his mind and watched the passing scene until it was too dark to pick out landmarks. As soon as he reached London, he and Sergeant Gibson would track down where Ben Clayton had come from and find out whether he'd had a past there. Then he'd be free to attend his own engagement party, setting out at midnight if he had to, in order to be at his destination by Saturday morning. There was a pressing need to return to Yorkshire as soon as he possibly could.

Best of both worlds . . . Rutledge smiled to himself. As a married man he would have to learn to juggle both of them.

D
ressed and shaved, Rutledge made one stop on the way to the Yard, arriving there late on Friday morning. He ran down Sergeant Gibson and conferred with him for half an hour.